


History Forgets

by NevillesGran



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Storm King Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things the stories leave out about the first Heterodyne Girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Forgets

**Author's Note:**

> This one started here: http://tanoraqui.tumblr.com/post/138749780297/an-important-gg-question

Here is what you forget about Euphrosynia Heterodyne: she was a warrior.

I will not say “of course she was a warrior”, because not all Heterodynes are—nor even excel at battle at all, the fight itself or the direction thereof. Some Heterodynes built far more than they ever destroyed. But history rarely remembers those. When history decides a line contains only monsters, it tends to forget those who do not fit the mold.

Euphrosynia was raised to shed blood as much as her brother, leaping the Castle’s bedroom traps and training with jägers in the yard. This was how the Storm King first beheld her: armor-clad, raven hair loose as she swung her sword with a lilting laugh. The blade flashed in the sunlight and cut through a soldier’s neck, spraying red, and then the tide of battle came between them again. He did not recognize her, nearly a year later, when they met again in the first tentative meetings of peace negotiation; he had thought her just another she-jäger, grinning with bloodlust. (Of course she fought with a unit of women; she was the first true-born female Heterodyne in centuries. They were _hers_ , and she theirs.)

But Euphrosynia remembered the Storm King, all gleaming gold and gory red—glittering fleur-de-lis on a wine-dark tabard, shining gilt crown in auburn hair, and his roar and the bloody slash of his greatsword as he cut down one of her guards. He was not smiling, but nor did he hesitate, and it was a joy to see such determination in his deadly work. To be sure, she remembered _him_.

.

Here is another thing you forget about Euphrosynia Heterodyne: she was a Spark.

Here perhaps, it is appropriate to say “of course”, because a Heterodyne who is not a spark is even rarer than a Heterodyne who is a girl. Yet somehow history remembers the latter so strongly and makes no note either way of the first.

She was not, perhaps, the most powerful of sparks—weaker than her brother, who was in turn weaker than their father—but she had the fire in her. The drive. The ever-burning sense of something greater, just beyond reach, rooted in a memory of a dream of the universe strung together with shining threads of light. Every piece moving in concert and all she had to do was reach out and _tug_ —

She was good at pulling strings, our Euphrosynia. A smile here, a cutting comment there, the right dress at the right time in the right place. She enjoyed that more literal sort of thread-pulling as well. History does not remember that the Heterodyne Girl liked to sew. She made her own leather armor, and a matching set for her brother. She embroidered bands to tie her raven hair back from her face, for battle or the laboratory or just every-day life. She sent the Storm King a handsom, handmade cloak as a courting gift, fireproof and patterned with his fleur-de-lis in glittering gold thread, and she designed and sewed every inch of her own white wedding gown.

.

Here is a thing history remembers about Euphrosynia Heterodyne, and thus so do you: she had a family. She had a family, and a town, and she loved them very much.

History calls her “the Heterodyne Girl”, but at home, she was Lady Euphrosynia, or the Young Mistress. Or Rosie to her father, who made her a pet for reminding him so fondly of the wild northwoman who bore her, or Lady Sinny to her playmates and guards, children of the town mixed with she-jägers who played and cracked jokes almost as gleefully as the children—and with significantly more sly winks. Many of the jägers’ jokes, Euphrosynia and her age-mates didn’t understand until they’d had _several_ anatomy lessons, and then some further education. But with her valkyrie of a mother gone too soon, it was Jenka who taught the young Lady court manners, Maria who braided her hair, and General Gkika who showed her the three fastest ways to a man’s heart: the stomach, the loins, and between the fifth and sixth ribs.

And her brother Bludtharst called her “the original Syn.” She loved it, even when he said it teasingly and ruffled her hair (even _after_ she outstripped him in height.) The blasphemy, the sly temptation, the defiant quest for knowledge—it was all Euphrosynia, _the_ Heterodyne Girl. And just as often, he said it proudly: when she made her first kill on a raid, or broke through and invented a breed of exploding firs, or when she beat him in a game of who could get more free drinks in a Geneva bar by flirting with the other patrons. Anonymously, of course, and swallowing their Mechanicsburg accents. And he was not _proud_ , perhaps, so much as indignant and peevish, but Eupbrosynia was flush with victory and rightfully won free ale, so she graciously accepted the _implied_ congratulations.

(And their accents slipped as they both got drunker, so they ended up burning the bar down anyway, to distract the soldiers with the fleur-de-lis embroidery on their tabards. Euphrosynia didn’t want any of them to see her as she and Bludtharst made their escape—negotiations were in progress, and very delicate. Of course, the Storm King and his Coalition would only be able to grumble at such a minor incident—they were dealing with Heterodynes after all. But Euphrosynia didn’t fancy the growling exasperation that would come laced through Andronicus’s next letter.)

(It was there anyway, in a sharp postscript, and she smiled, because she liked a man clever enough to see her hand in things. When, at least, that hand was holding a torch.)

.

Here is a thing everyone remembers about Euphrosynia Heterodyne, but not, perhaps, all the way: she was almost, _almost_ Queen.

That is, she almost, _almost_ went through with it. Or rather, didn’t. In her hand-sewn wedding dress, in this impenetrable castle marked with fleur-de-lis, standing at the altar with her clever King in his shining golden crown over blood-dark hair…she almost, _almost_ said “I do.”

Instead, she said “I’m sorry,” and pulled him forward to kiss before the priest could say a word—because it was her last chance, and because it would slow his reaction to the way every floral arrangement in the room exploded, save those on her family and their guests. Van Rijn was paranoid and meticulous, but his expertise was in codes and mechanisms, and Eurphosynia had perfected her combustible chlorophyll years ago.

The howling storm of the jägerhorde broke through the great front gates and the Heterodyne Girl waved the Storm King good-bye as they pulled apart, both already drawing their swords. Their blades almost, _almost_ resumed the kiss, but the tides of battle drew them father back, and he never heard her lilting laughter again. Nor did she see the glint of his crown as it fell.

.

Here is something history never knew:

Euphrosynia Heterodyne went home after her wedding-that-wasn’t, and bathed off the blood and slept alone on clean sheets. It was nearly a year before her brother caught up with her, finally as weary of chasing the westerners back behind their Alps as the once-shining Coalition-no-more was of running. She went to greet him with the cheering crowd, and he raised her hand with his and declared victory before the town—“All thanks to my sister, the one and only original Syn!”

Another: She specifically requested, as a not-wedding present, that the Muses not be harmed. She never cared for their creator (it was entirely mutual), but the clanks themselves were beautiful. _Fascinating_. (Meant for a legacy.) She didn’t want to destroy them, but her fingers itched and her fire burned every time she thought about taking them apart. Maybe just _one…?_

She knew, begrudgingly, that she wasn’t Spark enough to put one back together if she tore it to pieces, but her father could help, and just _one…_

But she only ever found one, and the Muse had found her first.

.

(And a third: Eurphrosynia was entirely Spark enough, warrior enough, to have torn Otilia to pieces if she’d tried, even if the Muse of Protection struck first, between the fifth and sixth ribs. But she’d only ever found this one, so the Heterodyne Girl demanded once again that the Muse be left unbroken, to do her duty and guard.)

(It was not, perhaps, an entirely merciful request, but that is another story, not yet subject to history’s whims.)

 


End file.
